


Distraction

by silentdescant



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alcohol, Beating, Begging, Dom/sub, Exhibitionism, Gangbang, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Object Insertion, Pool & Billiards, Pool Table Sex, Public Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-19
Updated: 2014-04-19
Packaged: 2018-01-19 23:09:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,282
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1487533
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/silentdescant/pseuds/silentdescant
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s not the first time Dean’s been fucked by a demon. It’s not the first time he’s been fucked in public. It is the first time it’s happened outside of Hell, but—and maybe it’s the alcohol dulling his sense of pride—Dean can’t bring himself to really care about what all these people think of him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Distraction

**Author's Note:**

> I rewatched 9.17, Mother's Little Helper, today and did some notficcing of that pool table scene with Sulwen... That turned into this.

It’s not the first time Dean’s been fucked by a demon. It’s not the first time he’s been fucked in public. It is the first time it’s happened outside of Hell, but—and maybe it’s the alcohol dulling his sense of pride—Dean can’t bring himself to really care about what all these people think of him.

Crowley barely had to give Dean the order. It was more like he suggested that Dean take off his clothes and climb up onto the pool table. Dean had done so, and now lies stretched across the table with his feet shoved into the pockets at either corner, stretching his legs a little wider than is comfortable. His cock is pressed flat between his belly and the scratchy felt; he’s not hard and doesn’t foresee becoming so, considering the bottle of whiskey he polished off back at the bunker, and the two or three… or four beers he’d downed here at the bar. Dean turns his face to the side with the wall, away from the nervous titters of the bar patrons, and puts his hands in the corner pockets by his head. He holds onto the lip of the pockets with his fingers somewhat lax; if he needs to grip them tight, the option is there.

Crowley had taken his pool cue from him when he’d stripped off his clothes, and he whacks Dean’s ass with it now. The narrow, tapered cue packs a heavy wallop and Dean grunts and groans, but it isn’t painful like a cane or a belt is painful across his cheeks. This feels more like a paddle, a weirdly rounded, skinny paddle with no give to it. It falls again and Dean knows he’ll be heavily bruised soon.

Crowley only hits him one more time with the cue. He then slides it under Dean’s hip and nudges him up, until his ass is raised as high as he can go without lifting his knees from the table. His chest, he leaves pressed as flat as he can to the felt. He tightens his grip on the lip of the pockets; he thinks his is going to hurt a little more than the beating.

He hears Crowley’s soft footsteps as he walks around the table, so Dean’s not surprised when Crowley finally comes into view. He bends down to put his face level with Dean’s.

“Having fun yet, sweetie?”

“I thought this was gonna get my mind off things,” Dean replies in an undertone. He knows he’s slurring his words slightly, but he hopes it’s not too obvious.

“Oh, I’m just getting warmed up.”

He disappears, walks around the table again and spits on Dean’s exposed asshole. Dean flinches when the wetness hits him, but more out of surprise than due to any effect the chill has on him. He spits again, but this time it doesn’t hit Dean; he must be spitting in his palm or something.

The object comes next. It’s definitely not a cock, not a human one and almost definitely not Crowley’s either. It’s something blunt and hard, unforgiving as Crowley pushes it into him without pause. It’s oddly straight, too, not like any toy Dean’s ever used in the bedroom. Realization dawns after a surprisingly long few moments, only after the object keeps pushing and pushing and pushing, seemingly without end. The pool cue. Of course.

Dean relaxes then, because as long as the pool cue is, it’s not going to stretch him much and it’s something he’s almost positive he can handle. He lets his back settle into an arch, pushing his hips back to accept more and more of the polished wood, and tries to move past the pain and embrace the pleasure he knows it’s just out of his reach.

“Ready for more?” Crowley asks in that polite, genial tone of his that makes it seem like he’s actually a decent guy. He actually gives Dean time to nod his head, cheek scraping against the table. The felt is turning rough and damp under his mouth. Crowley pulls out the pool cue and it clatters as he tosses it aside. “I think you’ll like this,” Crowley tells him.

The next thing Dean feels at his hole is thick and cold, and it doesn’t go in right away. Crowley massages Dean’s entrance with his fingers, keeping up the steady pressure of the new object until Dean starts to open up for it. Dean stretches and stretches, rolling his hips to find an easier position, and then the widest part goes in and… Dean realizes what Crowley’s just done. The object is fully inside him now, and there’s no doubt in Dean’s mind, based on the shape of it and the heaviness he feels deep in his gut, that Crowley’s just shoved a ball up Dean’s ass.

“How does that feel, darling?”

Dean grunts, too surprised and overwhelmed to come up with words. He can feel the ball inside him. He seizes up around it, torn between fighting it and pushing it out and just letting it settle in deep. Before Dean can make a decision and force his body in one direction or another, Crowley pats his ass gently.

“That’s what I thought. Here’s another, since you like that one so much.”

“Fuck,” Dean gasps.

Crowley puts another ball at Dean’s entrance and swirls it around, wetting it with the thin sheen of sweat that’s gathering on Dean’s skin. He doesn’t push it in yet.

“Ready, Dean-o?”

That nickname evokes a violent wave of sickness that Dean chokes down with a grimace. He can practically hear Crowley’s grin of satisfaction. Dean fights the intrusion, bearing down on the ball already inside him until he feels it breaching him, leaving him. It knocks against the one Crowley’s holding with a familiar muted click.

“Come on, sweetie, don’t be like that. You can take another. I have the utmost confidence in your ability—”

“My ability to what?” Dean snaps, breathless with effort. “Be a fucking slut?”

“If that’s what you want to call it, fine. I was looking for something a little more subtle.”

“Oh yeah, because a fucking pool ball up my ass is subtle.”

Crowley strokes a hand up and down Dean’s spine in a way that actually is surprisingly soothing, which Dean is sure how Crowley meant it. He relaxes in spite of himself, and the ball inside him sinks deeper again. Crowley pushes the second ball into him and it goes in with no problem. Dean shudders as the balls smack together and shift, sliding down and settling.

“How about a third?”

“No,” Dean moans, but Crowley pays him no mind, and the third ball goes in easily. There’s a brief moment wherein Dean can’t really feel it, and then it meets the others with a dull clink that sends a shudder through Dean’s entire body. The weight of the three already heavy balls combined makes Dean feel tethered down. He’s not even tied; there’s nothing keeping him here but Crowley’s word and Dean’s own terrible decision-making skills.

“Alright, sweetie, lift up for me,” Crowley urges him softly. He slides a hand beneath Dean’s chest and lifts until Dean is balanced on his knees and hands, even spread as they are to the far corners. His arms shake as he tries to hold the position, and the balls shift and rearrange with the change in gravity.

“Oh, fuck,” Dean grunts. “Fuck, Crowley, fuck.”

The rest of the bar has faded from Dean’s awareness, though he’s sure there are still people around, watching him, but that dark haze is broken by the familiar ring of Dean’s cell phone.

“Shall I let you up to answer that?” Crowley asks.

Dean can only manage another mindless grunt in response.

“Up you go, darling, come on.” He pokes and prods and nudges Dean until Dean rolls himself off the table, landing heavily on the floor. He almost keeps his feet under him, but the shock of the balls inside him moving and pressing against his prostate sends him to the floor with a pained cry.

Dean stays on the floor rather than struggle to his feet again. He commando-crawls over to where his clothes lie in a pile, and Crowley politely steps out of Dean’s way.

It’s Sam calling, of course. Dean doesn’t want to answer, but one pointed cough from Crowley tells him what the correct course of action is. He accepts the call and follows Crowley’s wordless instructions to get back on the pool table and resume his position.

“Dean?” Sam asks, his voice tinny and quiet at this distance. Dean can’t climb onto the table and hold the phone to his ear at the same time.

“Sammy,” he gasps. “Sammy.”

Dean finally gets back up with his knees spread and his arms shaking but strong enough to hold him. The phone sits beneath his face, glowing up at him with Sam’s name illuminated.

Crowley reaches beneath him and tugs on Dean’s flaccid cock. Dean shouts a strangled, “Fuck!” One of the balls feels dangerously close to slipping out of him, and he’s not sure he’s allowed to let it go yet.

“Are you… _jerking off_?” Sam asks incredulously.

Crowley lets go of Dean’s cock and instead presses hard on his belly and murmurs, “Let them out, Dean-o.”

Dean bears down with a long, wavering groan and the first ball pops out of him into Crowley’s waiting hand.

“Another,” Crowley orders.

He does it again, and another ball makes its way out of his ass and into Crowley’s hand. The third is lodged deeply in him, but Dean breathes and prepares himself for one more push. Only, Crowley stops him. He takes Dean’s hips in hand and pulls him back, sending Dean into a deep arch, lowering his ass and stretching his arms out fully extended to the corners of the table.

“Dean, answer me,” Sam demands. “Are you okay? What’s going on? Where are you?”

Crowley unzips his trousers and slides into Dean without any preamble. The pool balls have stretched him and desensitized the rim of his ass, and Crowley’s cock, at least, in this human form, goes in easy and soft. Dean almost feels empty, even with Crowley thrusting into him. The deepest point of every thrust, however, nudges the ball still stuffed inside him a little further and Dean quickly becomes delirious with the overwhelming sensation of it.

“Dean!” he hears Sam shout.

“How does this feel, Dean?” Crowley asks in a distant, ever-polite voice. “Is this enough for you or do you need something more?”

Dean shoves himself back to meet Crowley’s thrust. “More,” he pants. “Fuck, please, more.”

“More of what, darling?”

“Deeper,” Dean says. “Harder, please. _More_.”

“Dean!” Sam shouts again. “Dean, is Crowley there? What’s going on?”

Crowley reaches for Dean’s cock again, but it’s still soft. As much as Dean is desperate now to come, his body is too sluggish and pliant with alcohol, and it doesn’t respond how he wants it to. Crowley’s hand feels cold around him, and his cock feels cold inside him, and he knows none of it will be enough to get him off.

“Oh, don’t worry yourself, Moose,” Crowley says loudly. “Your toy’s in good hands. Well, he will be when I’m through with him.”

And with that, Crowley withdraws, leaving Dean achingly empty.

“Now let it out,” Crowley murmurs to him, again pressing hard on his stomach. Dean suddenly remembers the ball still shoved so deep into his ass he can’t even consciously feel it but for the dull ache in his gut. It takes Crowley massaging him, whispering encouragements into his ear, and Dean bearing down and panting hard, to finally push the ball out. Crowley lets it fall to the surface of the pool table with a loud thunk.

Dean’s emptier now than ever, and still worryingly turned on with no release in sight. He’s afraid Crowley will leave him here, mind and body numb with alcohol and humiliation, but Crowley’s hand falls to the nape of Dean’s neck and he squeezes gently.

“Say goodbye to dear Sammy, now, Dean-o,” Crowley tells him.

“Bye, Sammy,” Dean says obediently. Crowley picks up the phone but, Dean notices, he doesn’t hang it up.

“Now,” Crowley says in a loud, showy voice. He’s addressing the crowd, Dean realizes. He’d forgotten there even was a crowd. “Who wants first dibs?”

There’s a clamor of voices at the fringes of Dean’s awareness, but he tunes them all out. If Crowley’s going to whore him out, so be it, but Dean doesn’t have to participate in this part. All he needs to do is keep still, let them take him, and maybe, eventually—hopefully—he’ll get some satisfaction.

The first man steps up to the pool table and unzips his jeans noisily. Crowley pets Dean’s sweaty hair. Dean relaxes and watches Crowley bring Dean’s phone to his ear.

“Your brother won’t be home before curfew, but don’t worry, Moose, I’ll bring him back in one piece tomorrow.”

Sam’s incomprehensible squawk of objection and anger is cut short by the beep of the call ending. Crowley smiles down at Dean and calls him a good slut, and though the words are Dean’s own, they make him cringe.

The man behind him enters him forcefully; he’s bigger than Crowley’s human form, but he doesn’t fill Dean up right. He isn’t satisfying the ache and the need in Dean, even when Dean pushes himself back for more.

“Not enough?” Crowley asks knowingly. At Dean’s pained grimace, he turns his attention to the faceless man and says, “Pick up the pace. There’s a line.”

 

 _fin_.


End file.
